The shopping cart museum was interesting, to say the most. In that it wasn’t that interesting. Percival wasn’t sure why he’d ever started it. Just because his dad had specified the money was to be spent on shopping carts, didn’t mean it had to be spent on shopping carts. Percival knew his dad was crazy. Everyone knew Percival’s dad was crazy. But you were supposed to listen to dad, right? Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? He’d read that somewhere.

Fiasco, Part the First: “It’s them lousy Sasquatches,” Vinnie grumbled as he emptied the trash into the dumpster behind Gatlinburg’s Bigfoot Inn. “They get the breaks. We don’t get nothing. Nothing, I tell you.” He flicked away a banana peel that had stuck to his long, orangish fur. “Just look at that “People Used to Deny Cryptids’ Existence” exhibit at Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum. Bigfoot takes up half, and half the rest goes to them attention-whores Nessie and Jersey Devil. They get everything. Why, this stinking town’s got three stinking shops that don’t sell nothing but knitted Sasquatch hair.”

When the tiny plastic tube, ironically resembling a tampon, shows a pink plus sign, I know that I have gotten the job. Urine talks and mine says, “CONGRAT-U-HADSEXWITHSOMEONERECENTLY-LATIONS.”

Now begins a journey. Now begins the transition into motherhood.

It was their monthly Ulysses meeting at Kildare’s in Bee Branch, Arkansas. Lisa, Wade and Joe sat behind frosty mugs of Bud with their stained, unabridged copies of the tome in front of them. No one else was going to show up.

Out by Feargal Lawlor’s!

Down by the pump near Mixie’s Well!

Round by the broken crannóg at Loughool!

There it goes—the Ballybothar Road!